To Break an Agent
by PsychoDirector
Summary: In what is possibly my saddest story ever, a man looks back on what he's done, what it took to get there, and if it was worth it. It's about the sickness of torture, the horror of isolation, and the comfort in madness. Contains blood, violence, death...?


_**Rated M for Mature: Violence, torture, language, implied rape, child abuse, insanity, dudes getting shot, dudes getting barbequed, suicide (sort of), blood, gore, epilepsy, video games, substance abuse, prostitution, human trafficking, hobos, DEATH. (Holy shiitake mushrooms, Batman...)**_

**_Disclaimer: I don't own Psychonauts. Though, I swear, this gets more and more NOT Psychonauts as it goes on... sigh..._**

**_AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm not going to say 'authoress', because that provokes stereotypes and isn't an actual word, anyway. (If I pretend to be a guy, will people take the violence better? Probably, but too late now.) Also, I'd like to explain about this fic, for those who read the warning and are looking at me with eyebrows raised._**

**_This story was inspired by a dream I had once, detailing the last scene of The Incident. I, personally, found the moral behind it deeply moving, and the actual scene both disturbing and facinating. I originally planned to just have that scene in a trippy flashback with the main protagonist in the 'The Morning After Condition' thinking about it philosophically. However, the more I sketched out the plot, the more it became as to what inspired that final scene and final quote, going deep into a world of insanity and loneliness that my other stories have barely touched on. _Security Measures _came the closest, with that incident with the Girl Scout, but it was generally too _happy_. I like happy endings as much as the next guy, but the good feelings countered the sadness enough to create something that was pretty, but not thought-provoking. The other fics sometimes touch it, with their brief mentions of madness and whatnot, but none as much as, say,_ The Master's Smile _(another awesome Psychonauts fanfic). None really hit the ground that authors fear to tread, that of true, bitter, mental agony. _**

**_That's what this fic is for. It's a winding tale of one man's journey into psychoticness, taking two friends along for the ride. It's a story of his fight for survival, and his struggle to stay sane enough to prevent the destruction of the world as we know it, hanging on by diminishing slivers of hope as each day passes. It's the story of her care turning on her in a brutal twist, and how her Nightmares finally broke free amist the call of fire as she watches the blood of innocence stain the ground. It's a story of the icy hands of water taking hold at last, dragging a hopeless body deeper, deeper, only to realize that it won't end even as he's torn out for not the first time or the last time. It's a story, not of hope, but simply survival. It's a story of needed secrets, the horror of torture, and what it takes, sometimes, to protect the most lives._**

**_God bless the Psychonauts. Enjoy._**

**_??Psycho Director??_**

**_..._**

_**Channel 7 Eyewitness New Presents: One America**_

"_What, exactly, are your thoughts about government secrecy? That some things should be known only by certain people, and not released to the public?"_

"_Yeah, I don't think so. America is a free country, and one of the ways we know it is free is by what we know about it. That's how we know we're not, say, communist Russia. If the government had all this information, its public should be the first to know. We're not a nation of individuals—we're one group. A democracy."_

"_But our freedom stretches past our borders in this day and age. Ours is a country laced with immigrants and aliens. And with the world obsessed with war no matter where you look, is it _safe_ to let anyone with a green card know everything about us? You don't even have to be from another, rival country to support it."_

"_Are you saying there are spies among us?"_

"_In the general sense, yes."_

"_I believe that you're a little paranoid. Sure, there's a risk. But so are a lot of things we do. Would you force your son or daughter inside all day just because you're afraid of outside? Sometimes we have to take risks to keep our rights safe. It's our _right_ to know what's going on where we live. If the government is keeping secrets—which I doubt—then who knows what they could be doing? They could be planning to destroy us all right under our noses, and we would be none the wiser."_

"_So you don't trust our government enough to allow it secrets, is that it?"_

"_It sounds harsh when you say it like that. I love my government, and I love my country. But I hate not knowing what's inside it. So, in that aspect, I guess I don't."_

"_However, the government is entirely consisted of elected officials. Why would American citizens vote for people they don't trust?"_

"_Because, to put it simply, no one is trustable. They seem like good people over the television, but when it gets to the grit, they're still human. Sometimes humans crack under pressure."_

"_So you're saying that, under the right circumstances, our government could leak important information to others."_

"_That's part of it."_

"_But you just claimed that the government shouldn't have any secrets to leak, and should be open to the people."_

"_I said it should be open to the _American_ people. Now is a time to come together as one, not to split apart under paranoia and suspicion."_

"_There are over a million people in the US. Do you honestly expect them all to come together under the influence of knowledge?"_

"_It would take time, but yes. Peer pressure is a powerful thing, ma'am. Just look at the Nazis. You cannot say that everyone who ever donned a swastika would have been fueled by a desire to kill off the Jewish, the homosexual, the imperfect, given a more normal situation. People are fueled by an instinctive desire to fit in."_

"_What if they're fitting in with the wrong group?"_

"_Would they really want to join a group when their friends and family are joining something different? The worst… they… would have are a bunch of surly teenagers, and I doubt the mass of what I call One America would be downsized by that."_

"_Do you believe that things like E-mail and the Internet would severely affect the creation of One America?"_

"_I think it would help us. We need to spread the word as fast as possible, and if that means writing it in spreadsheets and HTML code, then so be it."_

"_So, in conclusion, you don't think the government should be keeping secrets, and you don't believe it is."_

"_Not major ones, no. There may still be a few trickles to drain, but nothing more than that. There's no aliens in Roswell, no Bigfoot, no Apollo 11 conspiracy, nothing."_

"_What about the rumors of the government's own mental marines—the Psychonauts? Do they exist?"_

"_Well… no. No, I don't think so."_

_**The Morning After Condition**_

He remembered it all in bits and flashes. Even his own mind, infamous in its skill and power at such things, had been reduced to a drugged mess during that time. Every so often, when walking along the darkened path to his home or consulting his overly-friendly post-traumatic stress disorder psychiatric therapist (what a mouthful), he'd find himself facing something small, but just close enough to trigger another flash, and he'd be unable to think of anything else for several hours. For the first few days afterwards, these flashes came several times a day, and would more often than not find him screaming words he would not remember afterwards whilst curled in a fetal position, his hands clawing at his skull like there were things crawling inside it.

Over time, these flashes came less and less, usually only occurring on a monthly-basis (which he sometimes referred to as 'PMS from Hell', during his happier times) and when something particularly _deja-vu _invoking crossed his path.

He could no longer go to Whispering Rock. While he was better than before (there had been times when the name itself would send him into compulsive seizures), he knew that the sight of the familiar pine trees and rickety cabins would play havoc on his nerves. Oleander had tried to send him back only once, and never again. It pained the pseudo-soldier to see his old friend nearly sent into cardiac arrest. It had taken almost an hour for Morry and Ford to convince him to climb out of that oak and be taken home.

Another thing: he was graying prematurely. Though this didn't bother him as much as the flashes, he had always held just a bit of care about his appearance somewhere inside, and this was depressing. Sometimes, when feeling particularly bored or wretched, he'd steal off to his apartment's large bathroom (being a Psychonaut held good pay as one of its benefits) and meticulously count the ashen roots. They had started during the incident—due simply to sheer fright—and hadn't stopped. His therapist, a lovely young woman by the name of Beatrice, had suggested dye. He took it as unconsciously as he showered and applied toiletries each day, and as a result, his hair was a dark, dusty navy against the white, which was different than before. He rather liked the change, though he sometimes looked longingly at the other colors when refreshing his stock at the nearest Great Clips. Once he considered a lovely shade of russet, but then the memories had resurfaced, and he quickly grabbed the nearest other bottle (hot pink, as luck would have it), purchased, and ran out before he risked having another epileptic attack.

Video games helped with preventing the flashes. Sometimes, on a warm summer's day, he'd grab up an espresso or two or twelve, power-walk to the nearest change machine ("for laundry"), and make his way to one of the few arcades still in business. Of course, to keep up his façade, he'd claim he was just waiting for someone (a father who was now dead, a son that didn't exist, or once even a woman named Mill…icent), but "one game couldn't hurt". He was often the last to leave, chatting animatedly to young children (while hiding jittery, caffeine-fueled hands behind his back) like he was one of them. He supposed this attracted stares; who was this man who spent all his time with young, hyper-active boys?

_A pedophile—I'll just walk away slowly and not get involved_, they think, before turning around and running into a lamp post in their eagerness to get away. Sometimes his telepathy was both humorous and depressing.

The gamer children loved him, of course. Many would try to beat this "Mr. Champion-Game-Guy" at pretty much any game in the arcade, but none (or few, if he was feeling generous) would succeed. He busted moves on DDR, busted heads on Mortal Combat, and busted out in a seizure once or twice. Fortunately he usually managed to go invisible and run away before that happened, but sometimes he couldn't. Luckily, it was such a rarity that the manager allowed him to stay. And why not? He was keeping that tiny store in business with his generous salary and desperation to escape reality.

He wasn't cruel to the gamer children, not at all. He helped small girls win cheap toys from the claw machines (often using TK if the girl started getting teary-eyed—he wasn't _that_ good), helped boys beat difficult bosses when they were running low on change, and consoled whiny toddlers who were scared of the jerking, robot animal rides. He even once kept the place from being robbed using his powers; how they had loved him for _that_.

Still, the time came when the sun touched down and he had to go home, back to an empty apartment, a caffeine crash, and nothing to stop the flashes from coming back. He used to keep the radio on loudly to try and prevent them; but the electric bill was huge and the neighbors were starting to complain. Eventually he was forced to stop and, sooner or later, forced to try and go to sleep.

He was a powerful psychic. He could transfer his psyche into the minds of all three of the ones involved in the incident, using a sort of retro-clairvoyance. It was how, along with the flashes and his own memory, he was able to pierce together what had happened during those three days, when he had hit the 'recollection' part of the Morning After Condition. He was fueled by a mad desire to know all of what had happened to ruin his life, who was where when, what were they were doing now, who had lived and who now rested in the graveyard a few blocks from his apartment. However, once he had entered all three nightmare worlds, he had found it was very hard to back out at night. His subconscious automatically tried to enter whichever mind was important, to the point where he often woke up with a distressing case of identity crisis. Sometimes he watched children with fascination and made nervous noises at sparks, sometimes he cringed upon nearing a body of water and attempted to pull on goggles he didn't wear, and sometimes he sat and whispered empty promises to himself in German, reaching for sunglasses that weren't there.

He gave a tired yawn, collapsing into bed while fully clothed, and dreamt about the past. These nightmares were even worse than the flashes, and far more prominent. Tonight he felt his consciousness drifting away, through time and space, and into the mind of Sasha Nein.

_**The Incident**_

**Sasha Nein woke up slowly, his mind cloudy and vision blurred from both the chloroform, the Anti-Recondinsolium (an illegal drug, he knew, to prevent psychic usage), and the havoc wrecked on his brain already. As usual, he was bound to a chair (he remembered it as a small, plain metal one, not because he could see it now, but because he had seen it before) and had a helmet strapped to his head (for extra prevention of his powers). His arms were laced with cuts and burns, as well as the rest of his body, and the rope on his wrists made his twin broken arms sing high notes of pain before he had even woken up all the way. His broken ankles joined in, coupled soon with the burns and cuts all over. His ribs poked against his skin, his stomach too hungry to beg for food and his throat too dry and chalky to accept it, anyway. He knew he'd have to be fed intravenously in the hospital for several days after this, if he lived.**

**He remembered how it had happened, three long days ago. He, Milla, Razputin, and two other agents named Francesca Doom and Neville Ritchie had been sent on a new mission: find the secret base of a group of people suspected of psychic terrorism and human trafficking, to name a few things. **

**Razputin was as excited as always; it was almost his eleventh birthday, and he was eager to turn these guys in as… something. Either something to get out of the way before the party, or an early gift to himself. That child's mind worked in strange ways, ways even Sasha couldn't figure out.**

**Milla was, for sure, both eager to end this and hell-bent on making the villains pay dearly. The case hadn't hit her hard—she had had cases like this before—until she saw the results of their trafficking. Theirs was mostly about love-slaves and prostitution, as that was what most buyers wanted a human slave for. As it was, most of their customers came from foreign countries, where pedophilia was a normal thing for males, and wives were often shamefully youthful.**

**To make a long story short, one of the girls successfully recovered from her purchaser was eight years old. Another was ten—Razputin's age. Both had been bought and sold around for as long as they could remember (and the eight-year-old could remember instances when she was three or four). Needless to say, the Brazilian brunette was driven to fury, and quickly joined what Francesca had jokingly referred to as 'the ass-kicking party'. **

**The party in question was in a dark alley, cobblestone, with boxes and cans of trash strewn about the sides. Rats, cats, and even a stray dog sometimes crossed their path, but there wasn't a person in sight. After all, they were all asleep, as it was past midnight in Quinvette, Montana. It was an odd place for an evil base, but at the same time strikingly genius: little to no suspicion could be found here, and less witnesses in such a tiny town. It would make sense to hold a psychic operation here, where their worst concern was Larry the obese policeman, who knew only how to rescue kittens from trees and prevent small house fires. **

**That was, until the Psychonauts had shown up, and they had some major problems of their own.**

**The psychic band had almost reached the base when Sasha felt something amiss. He turned around quickly at the nagging feeling in his mind, only to discover that both Francesca and Neville had pulled weaponry out on the three other agents. **

**"Don't move if you know what's good for you, Agent Nein," Neville had drawled, his baritone voice dropped down lower than it should have been—Sasha knew that this meant he was a little scared. He was new to betrayal.**

**Though Sasha hid his surprise in an attempt to pick at Neville's weakness (it was easier to act tough when someone was scared of you), Milla and Razputin acted appropriately for him.**

**The German agent didn't know exactly what his partners had said, as he was already scanning the area and picking up well-hidden auras in the shadows. However, he knew Milla was shocked at Neville and Francesca, and mentioned some embarrassing 'sisterly' moments she had shared with the latter, which made Sasha blush and return to searching with intensified vigor. While Milla distracted the two weaponed agents with questions, Razputin did something that Sasha would note, later, was remarkably wise: ask another, older agent for help.**

_**What do I do now, Agent Nein? **_**he sent telepathically, simply. Not 'we'; 'I'. What do **_**I**_** do now. His childish ego wasn't completely vanished, and Sasha had mixed feelings about that. He sent his reply.**

_**Don't provoke them, for one. I recognize what they're using: 6md Psi-magnums. **_

_**…In English? **_**Sasha sighed, slowly raising his hands in the air in surrender. **

_**Guns specially designed for psychics. Follow my lead if you want more information**_**. Sasha knew he did—he always did—but he still paused a little, uncertain. The thought of surrender made him slightly sick inside, but if Agent Nein said so… He raised his hands, too, then looked impatiently at the German. **

_**They're a regular bullet inside, but the parts have been coated with a special lubricant**_**, he explained mentally, as Raz listened with rapt attention. **_**It's no Vaseline, but its genetic makeup should be familiar: psitanium, ground into a powder and heated until it's a near-liquid, then mixed with other ingredients. It's sticky and hard when exposed to oxygen, but the heat from the shot melts it down instantly. It's kept in shape from an extra layer of glue that holds it together, but undergoes a chemical reaction when exposed to saltwater and dissolves. The bullet breaks apart before the psitanium has a chance to cool, and the direct contact with the bloodstream and the liquid psitanium short-circuits the mental part of the brain. You lose your powers as soon as you're hit, and you still get the effects of having a bullet shot into you. **_**There was a long silence, in which Sasha cursed the name of Nami Arigawa, the inventor of the bullet (.58 6md dissolvable PSI shot), and Fredrik Shepp, the inventor of the ultra-heat 6md Psi-magnums that could support it. Raz was thinking. Milla asked, "Why us?" and Neville gave a long-winded answer Sasha didn't care about.**

**(NOTE: 6md is 6 mega-dose, the measurement of psitanium in a .58 6md dissolvable PSI shot, or PSI shot for short. About .42 milliliters.)**

**.58 is the amount of lead grams in a PSI shot.**

**PSI is an acronym for Psychic Sensitive Infiltrator.)**

_**So… don't get shot? **_**Raz finally concluded, his mental voice oddly squeaky. Sasha nodded, a tiny jerk of the head that went unnoticed by the traitor agents. **

_**Yeah. Don't get shot.**_** It was then that Francesca spoke up, and fortunately, Sasha heard it.**

**"Now, sorry for the inconvenience, but we're going to have to knock you guys out. Luckily for you we brought some chloroform, because we'd hate to have to use these." She gestured towards her weapon, then explained why she wasn't shooting them as they stood, which was a question all three were wondering. "Milla, you're a good buddy, and blood makes me a little squeamish." She smiled, but there was no happiness or humor in it. "I hope we can still be friends."**

**"I'd rather befriend an arsonist!" Milla barked, stepping in front of Razputin protectively. She didn't notice when Raz slipped impatiently over to the right to get a better look. Sasha, who was to Milla's left, pulled Raz back a little way, by using TK on his collar. **

**He received a bullet shot to his leg for his imprudence. He went down on one knee, yelling "**_**Damn you,**_** PSI shot!" while cupping his hands over his bleeding kneecap (the one he wasn't kneeling on). Milla screamed and tried to run over to him, but stopped when she felt one of the magnums trained on her. Slowly she froze, crouched down at Agent Nein's side. **

**"Don't worry, Milla," Sasha gasped, his face red. "I'm alright. Just… do what they say for now, alright?" Milla bit her lip, eyeing the growing stain with distaste and worry.**

**"O-okay, darling. Are you sure?" Sasha shot her a sarcastic look, one eyebrow raised, which either meant: 'I've been shot in the knee, what do you **_**think**_**?' or 'it's not like there's anything you or I can do about it'. In his case, it was the latter. Meanwhile, Raz's voice entered his mind, further wearing away at his patience as he stuttered apologies.**

_**Oh, God, Sas—Agent Nein, I'm sorry! Sorry, that was my fault, sorry, sorry! I'll keep out of the way now, okay, promise! God, there's blood all over, oh EW, that's so gross, ew! I'm really sorry, Agent Nein, I didn't know that would happen—but I should've, I'm an agent, I've studied this stuff—I'm such an idiot! Sorry! I—**_

_**RAZ, **_**Sasha interrupted, shooting him a dark glare. **_**Shut up. I forgive you. **_**There was a pause, and then Raz spoke up mentally again, his voice tinier. **

_**'Kay. **_**That was the last word Sasha heard, before Neville said something, and he felt someone sneak up behind him. He turned around to see a man standing there, looking awkward with his whisky flask in one hand and a dirty rag sitting in the other. He clearly wasn't expecting to be spotted, and stood stock-still, wondering what to do next.**

**For the record, he had lengthy, dirty brown hair and near-black brown eyes, as well as a bad case of what was either heavy freckles or acne. His white T-shirt was stained in a rainbow of vulgar colors, and his worn jeans were at least two sizes too small for his rather meaty thighs. His feet were bare and teeth were chipped in places, and he had a yellow ruler wound tightly around a blue-tinted upper arm. By Sasha's educated guess, he'd been bribed to be here. Probably with dopamine, judging by the ruler.**

**"Hey! Get offa' me!" Sasha heard Razputin yell, and turned slightly to see him squirming in the arms of another, zombie-like henchman. This one had on a tattered brown jacket, loose jeans (with dirty gray underwear showing above the waistline), and two rulers and a bandage around one arm, which was sickly infected and purplish-black. He held Raz in his one good (though skeletal) arm, using the infected one to try and make contact between rag and mouth. His face held the same look that Sasha's new friend had—an empty nothing. **

**Milla, to finish the ensemble, was staring down an anorexic woman with long, greasy black hair down to her navel that covered her face. She had on a black bikini top and frayed jean short-shorts, as well as tattered fishnet leggings and ratty purple sneakers. She had caked blood on her shorts, running down her leg, and Sasha shuddered to think of why.**

_**It's just a cut**_**, he quickly thought to Razputin, before the ten-year-old could work his imagination. **

**"**_**Who cares**_**!?" Raz shrieked back, kicking out at the addict who had his arm wrapped around his own, pinning them to his side. It was more out of instinct than anything: he knew that, were he to successfully escape, he'd just be shot like Sasha, maybe in a more painful area. "What do we do **_**now**_**? Christ, this guy is scary!" Sasha thought for a second, then turned back to his addict, who had tried once again to gas him, this time getting within two feet and stretching his arms out like he was being crucified before freezing. Sasha narrowed his eyes, weighing his options, then gave his reply.**

_**Watch. **_**He reached over and snatched the flask and rag from the other man, who put up no struggle, but kept watching with his deadened eyes. **

**"Give me those," Sasha demanded while grabbing them, then quickly put the rag over the flask and tipped it, refilling the dried-out cloth. He could feel one of the magnums trained on him, but kept at it.**

**Suddenly, with lightning reflexes, he threw his head back and pressed the cloth to—no, not the druggie, but his own mouth, the horrible stench raping his senses even as he crumpled to the ground. Milla and Raz both let out screams, and Sasha felt a pair of feet run and come to a stop beside his head. Sasha lifted his head weakly, already losing consciousness. Milla was crouched down in front of him, her tanned skin and orange dress blending into one, warm, beautiful color in front of his soupy vision.**

**"You're a horrible influence," she scolded, then lifted his head up and put his lips against hers. Sasha's eyes widened briefly before he kissed her back, the sweet taste of pomegranates overriding the hideous taste of chloroform, at least for a little while. Her lips felt soft and amazing against his own, which he knew were probably dry and tasting like bacon and eggs (his breakfast). **

**"I love you," she whispered, and Sasha mumbled his reply, the chloroform slowing his mouth and mind.**

**"Me too," he groaned, and then everything went black. He heard shots—two of them—and two voices screaming. Something warm lapped against his forehead, even as the noises faded into a steady ring, then died.**

_**She knew**_**, Sasha thought before fainting, his last thought. **_**Somehow, from the moment those two pulled out those magnums, she knew this was going to happen. She knew we'd get captured, and maybe not even wake up. That's why she kissed me.**_

_**…I knew, too. That's why I took that rag, and why I kissed her back.**_

_**I really love you, Milla.**_

_**The Morning After Condition**_

This was his favorite nightmare: the big kiss. It was the final moment before everything went wrong, and was his only consolation in the nightmares. The shots fired weren't fatal, but they hit who they intended: she got hit in the shoulder, and he in the arm. The distractions were enough for the druggies to gas them, and each fell limp shortly after the first one. They were taken away like that, each to different areas of the base.

For three days, each thought the other two were dead. Each entered their own, personal hell, and not just because of the torture invoked on them by the 'bad guys'. To describe that feeling they each shared would be impossible. To know how it felt, to be completely and utterly miserable and terrified from the moment you woke up until the moment you fainted from the sheer pain of it all (both physical and emotional), clinging to the tiny shred of hope that you might someday be rescued and see _home_ again (now more of a vague idea of 'happy' than an actual, remembered place), not even knowing if the people you came in with were alive or like you or maybe, just maybe, tearing through the halls in search for you if you only had the strength to scream for them, day after timeless day… It was impossible.

With that bitter though in his mind, his nightmares forwarded themselves, returning to the brutal memories of the past. He darted from mind to mind with all the vigor of a hummingbird, morbid curiosity overcoming his sanity for another night.

_**The Incident**_

**Each day held new discoveries for the villains, which they took with sadistic glee. For Milla, they learned of the terrible memories fire reminded her of, and her incredible concern for children. They brought in firestarters from their group, who moved fire in the kind of ways that made it look like her world was burning. They brought in the younger slaves (anyone, from newborns to teenagers), who looked positively pitiful in their shabby clothes, with wide, milky eyes and skinny, shaky limbs and sores from malnutrition and poor hygiene. These, with heartless pleasure, they would manipulate in ways that made Milla scream and cry and beg pitifully. It pains me to write this, so I'll just use a few key words: beatings, lashes, kicking, rape, insults, starvation, and finally, when they had had their fun and were ready to try another child, burning. All tallied up, they used a six-year-old girl, a fourteen-year-old boy, a four-year-old-boy, a twelve-year-old boy, and a five-month-old infant girl, in that order. Each died, to be reborn as frightening Nightmares, which Milla didn't even try to lock away. They roamed free, tearing apart her mentality with the original six, causing the kind of wreckage that she would never recover from, provided she survived.**

**Razputin was a bit more difficult. For the first day they experimented with the usual terrors of someone his age, though it was with less enthusiasm, as they didn't expect he'd know what they were looking for. It was only because he was with the other two and an Alpha Rank agent himself that they even tried at all, as opposed to just assassinating him on the spot.**

**It was sometime around three in the morning on the second day that he finally cracked, tired and hopeless from the latest rounds of torture, this time with hot coals. The madman who was supplying the coals was just heating up a nasty, sharp hunk of metal in the furnace, wondering to himself what would change if he cut open the skin and burnt the internal tissues. He was a scientist once, after all, and these kinds of things intrigued him.**

**"**_**Water**_**!" Raz shrieked suddenly at the sight of the metal, yanking against the rough chain that bound him to the table, even though it did him no good, as usual. "**_**I'm an Aquato**_**! **_**We're cursed to die in water**_**! **_**Oh, God, please stop**_**!" The madman did, indeed, stop, slowly putting aside the white-hot metal. He had heard of the Aquatos, having gone to their circus when he was a boy. (It should be noted that he had a perfectly normal, though slightly strict, childhood, and pursued this as a fetish, using a **_**slightly **_**skewed moral compass that no one knew the origins of.) He turned to the boy, who was watching him with wide, teary eyes. **

**"Really? Because I believe you know what will happen if you're lying." He eyed the metal with a dark gleam in his eyes, fingering the tongs he used to hold them (he was a sadist, not a masochist, and used proper tools to protect himself). "It seems to me you're just trying to get something for those nasty burns. I'll bet water would feel so very nice against those, so very, very nice." He picked up the metal hunk, and Raz gasped.**

**"**_**No**_**!**_** I'm telling you the truth**_**! **_**I wanna' DIE**_**! **_**Please, just kill me**_**! **_**I can't take it anymore**_**!" The madman looked again at the metal, almost longingly, then set it aside with a sigh.**

**"…Very well. We'll test your quick mouth, little boy." From his position on the table, Raz sighed in what might, at one point, have been relief.**

**Well, as they quickly learned, Raz's exclamation held true, and the next 46 hours were filled by taking the almost-eleven-year-old swimming. The process of interrogation took a more icy turn, in which the torturers would spend time holding the child by his arms while shoving his head down for gradually longer periods of time, reveling in his mindless panic. Sometimes they provided variety and threw him in a pool via TK to watch the hand take him under, but this was risky and not very useful for gathering information. Still, it was fascinating, and coupled well with the classic head-dunking. This, as well as a few other varieties of torment (the metal was eventually used, and the scientific results were appropriate), created a kind of sick balance of agony for the youngest Psychonaut ever.**

**Sasha, by far, presented the hardest challenge. Of all of them, he was the most likely to **_**know**_**, and it wasn't long before they found out that he did. This drove them unnaturally giddy, of course, but there was one problem: he wasn't talking, and no one knew what to do to get him to start. He screamed loud enough when they broke his ankles, and seemed just the right kind of afraid when that one man had brought out the whip (not in a sexual way, I assure you). However, that was all he would do. When they screamed at him,**

**"**_**WHERE IS IT**_**!?"**

**he'd just grit his teeth and shake his head. He was quite possibly the best agent for keeping a government secret—a secret they wanted.**

**It was called Goliath, and unlike the mythical giant, it wasn't about to be fallen by a slingshot. The organization wanted it, so much, but in order to get it, they had to get Sasha Nein to crack.**

**They might as well have been told to slam a revolving door, for all the luck they were having. Agent Nein held on for exactly 73 hours and six minutes, even through the hopelessness and the fact that he didn't know if his lover and his student were still breathing—or if they still wanted to. **

**"**_**WHERE IS THE GOLIATH!?**_**" they'd scream. **

**"**_**WHERE ARE MILLA AND RAZPUTIN!?**_**"****he'd yell right back, even though his voice was croaky and dry with agony. He wouldn't tell them the location of Goliath, even if Milla and Razputin **_**were**_** alive and well, but he felt the need to at least **_**know **_**the last bit. It drove his thoughts and actions, allowing him to survive the suffering and keep his own knowledge to himself, somehow keeping him sane through it all. He had no Nightmares racing through his mind (aside from two; a Brazilian and a Russian), and didn't admit to any phobias (though he had none, aside from one you can probably guess about). He kept mute for three days, until, on the last day, one of the captors had a devilish idea…**

_**The Morning After Condition**_

He was at the graveyard, his nightmares (of the literal, not mental, sort) driving him to a place he had visited many times before. This, this place of eternal quiet and rest, was one of the few places left where he could find what might pass as tranquility. He had spent a few nights curled up against a headstone, further weighing down some unknown, late relative of someone. Unlike the majority of people, both adults and children, he had never found the peace of death or the meticulously carved names and dates frightening. Quite the opposite; the weeds over the stones and brick shed near the corner reminded him of the first collage he had attended on his way to a Doctorate of Science, his quick wit and dapper IQ earning him salutatorian status (he had been bested by someone with the last name Loboto, which he once looked at with chagrin but now took in stride).

Remembering fondly the friendly, welcoming faces of that prestigious academy, he settled in his favorite spot: a certain area below a shady willow, whose fronds dipped down long enough to make the inside seem like a woodsy cave. The amount of stones petered out around here, so that there were only two actually beside the tree, side by side. It was these that he settled behind, pressing his back against the still sun-warmed marble. His short, navy hair blew in the wind, and he breathed a slight sigh. It was so peaceful here… He curled up behind the stones, yawning, his exhaustion kicking in. Maybe, if he felt lucky, he'd be able to sleep here, as peaceful as those six feet under.

He was sure, in the morning, his two best friends would come looking for him. They knew what he'd been through and, though they'd never admit it, they were sometimes afraid the pressure would overcome him, and he'd been in the wrong spot in that graveyard. First dangling from the willow he loved, then asleep below six feet of dirt and moss. That would never happen, he was over that stage of what Morry called 'Morning After Condition', but they still worried. He had taken the incident hard, and was called into early retirement after his seizures had started disrupting both his missions and his coworkers. Even those he had known at Whispering Rock were circumspect. He had always been… off… but after the incident, he seemed a little scary. You can't come that close to death without dying a little on the inside.

He celebrated his birthday alone for years after that, before making friends who cared about his epileptic self, rather than his secret agent self. Epilepsy had some benefits, after all. Less fair-weather friends; more true ones. More people want to say "I'm friends with a _Psychonaut_!" than "I'm friends with an _epileptic_!" Wouldn't you?

Tonight, curled up against the graves of the long-since departed, he closed his eyes and let his mind drift away again, powerless to stop it, back into Agent Nein's mind. He was the most important character in the incident, after all. Not Raz, not Milla—it was Sasha that had triggered that final event, the one that drove him in the graveyard to seizures, panic attacks, flashes, and nightmares.

_**The Incident**_

**"Think you've outdone us, eh, Nein, you miserable fuck?" someone was saying, pacing back and forth in the warehouse (a classic hideout if there ever was one). Sasha just stared stupidly, his mind still a little stoned on the drugs he was kept on. "Think that, if you just hold out enough, you'll kick the bucket, or someone'll come and save your useless ass. That's why you haven't squealed about Goliath." He turned at this, then quickly snapped his hand back and slapped Sasha across the face. Sasha just blinked, twisting his head to the side to prevent neck damage; after all he had been through, a slap was less than nothing. The man in the dark outfit—Damian Umberbridge—seemed to know this as well as Sasha did. He spat on the ground, but the German could tell something was pleasing him, and that made him afraid. He felt his tired heart quicken just a little, the effort a little painful, like almost everything else.**

**"Well, I'll tell you what, Agent Nein," Damian spat out the name like a curse, "it's not that easy. We can make you talk if we want to; we just need the right… persuasion. I'll give you one last chance, though, to tell us, before we need to use Plan B." He whipped around to face Nein (having taken up pacing again), and growled out, "**_**Where. Is. The. Goliath**_**?" Sasha glared at him, his hate apparent on his face.**

**"Where are Milla and Razputin?" he growled back, his voice not nearly as menacing as he had hoped. However, this seemed to be just the answer Damian had expected, as he grinned wider, and turned to an invisible (and by that I mean not there… not just using invisibility) audience. **

**"Alright, alright. The agent wants to see his buddies, we'll show him his buddies. The question is, will he like what he **_**sees**_**?" As if on cue (as they probably were), the two male druggies from before stumbled in, leading two figures in front of them that Sasha would recognize anywhere. Well, their looks, anyway. **

**"Milla! Razputin!" Sasha shouted, stuck somewhere between relief and horror. Both of them looked up to see him, and Milla burst out into relieved, dry sobs (having nothing to drink in three days, most of which were spent surrounded by fire, she couldn't afford to lose water by crying). Raz seemed a bit better in the dehydration category—his skin was sopping wet, and his tattered clothes were plastered to a much-too-skinny frame. However, his eyes were wide and mouth was open, and his irises kept darting about in paranoia. He gave Sasha a shaky grin and a quiet "S-Sasha", before looking all about. Sasha, who knew of Raz's issues with water, could just guess what had been done to him in his absence.**

**Milla was about in the same condition as Razputin and Sasha, with her clothing burnt in places (including a few that would have made Sasha blush severely a few days ago) and skin pale and dry. Her eyes wore tired bags like the rest of them, and her hair was white at the roots. She had bad rope burns on her bare arms (which Raz and Sasha also had, but their long sleeves made them impossible to see), and she seemed impossibly tired. This was not the pomegranate-smelling woman who had scolded and kissed him impossibly long ago, just as that paranoid boy was not the same one who had been dancing around in anticipation for a huge birthday bash. Just their empty, defeated look made Sasha want to cry. **

**"Darling… you're alive…" she sobbed weakly, her voice even hoarser than Sasha's own. Were it a Christmas light (though it was impossible to compare her melodic but agonized voice with a cheap thing like that), it would be flickering and perilously close to dying out altogether. **

**"A-Agent Nein…" Razputin gasped, unsure of what else to say. He finally settled for a pitiful, heartbreaking statement: "I wanna' go home." Sasha knew why he had said that, and it wasn't just because of his desire. No, it was because somewhere, deep in his insanity-brinked mind, he knew he might not get another chance to say this. So, in desperation, he stated it to the most authoritative and trusted person he knew: Sasha Nein. Also because he knew, of the two of them, Sasha alone would have been able to determine this from his brief sentence. He was only ten, almost (but not quite) eleven, and he was sharp. He would have—Sasha corrected himself—**_**will**_** make a formidable agent in his future endeavors. **

**It was then, in that automatic correction, that the enemy's plans finally fell into place, and Sasha's pupils contracted behind his cracked lenses. His heart quickened further, and his suspicions were instantly confirmed when Damian pulled out a switchblade. He hadn't brought in Milla and Razputin to quench Sasha's demands; rather, to use them as a bargaining chip.**

**"So what'll it be, Nein?" he asked, his voice hitting euphoria in his eagerness. He pressed the blade first to Raz's throat, who gasped and struggled weakly against his bonds (for Sasha now noticed that both he and Milla had their wrists tied behind their backs as well as the druggies at their arms). "How about I get your protégé first? A nice, slow carve down the jugular vein, then I can move on to your nice, foreign slut. This could be fun." Sasha's face was livid, the kind of blind fury that was thought to have been washed out in the first day.**

**"If you hurt them…" he hissed, straining to pyrokinetically burn the ropes that held him; or, at least, snap them with his arms. He cursed the fact that he was a man of science, and not, say, a body builder. **

**"You'll what? Glare me to death? I'm shaking in my fuckin' boots, Nein." He smiled at Razputin, revealing nasty, yellow teeth. Raz squeaked. "Of course, if I knew about Goliath… maybe you could watch me reign together before you died? One last hug before it's all over, what do you say? Or should I just slit this mini-bastard's throat now?" He turned his monstrous grin at Sasha, and even he had to shiver at it. There was nothing human left in it; just pure, sadistic pleasure at the idea of murdering an innocent child.**

**It was then that Agent Nein realized something, something that both terrified and fulfilled him. No matter how much he told, it wouldn't change a thing. He saw it in those insane eyes, glinting red like blood in the light. He was happy here, maniacally so, and wouldn't give this up. Sasha had seen enough madmen before to read this one like a book: he'd get the information he wanted, then kill off the witnesses. He couldn't have any evidence, any variables. They saw his face; the first thing they'd do, once free, would be to tell HQ. **

**Sasha Nein and something once known as Damian Umberbridge connected at that moment in time, and for a second, each knew what the other was thinking. Damian wanted a psychic explosive powerful enough to wipe out half of the planet and more by taking bits of powers from every psychic in the world; Sasha knew he couldn't let that happen. The sheer power behind Goliath would kill millions, if not billions. **

**Sasha considered giving Damian a false address, leading him on a wild goose chase while he made his escape with the other two. He even opened his mouth, ready to spew out a random latitude and longitude, let them fuck around with MapQuest for a bit on that… Then Damian's hand twitched. Raz whimpered as a thin, pink line embedded itself on his throat, trying in vain to back away from the pain-maker. The connected renewed itself, both a mixture of intuition and the psychic powers the Anti-Recondinsolium had failed to completely block (the dosage was wearing off, but it'd still be several hours before he got even basic abilities back), and Sasha knew once again: he wouldn't stop. He'd kill Raz and Milla anyway, just to see Sasha's face before heading for his neck in turn. He'd knock them off before messing with MapQuest, then go after Sasha when the instructions lead to, say, the Pacific Ocean. Or maybe he'd let them live as he searched for Goliath, then kill them off them in fury, or hold them until he got the **_**real**_** Goliath.**

**Even if Sasha's intuition was wrong, even if Damian's was going to set Milla and Razputin free after Sasha gave the location, that didn't change the fact that he'd be giving away billions of lives to a madman. He had a choice: to watch the end of the world with his lover and apprentice at his side (maybe), or for all three of them to go down for the world. This wasn't like saving Whispering Rock; this was a kamikaze attack.**

**"Sasha," Milla croaked. Sasha made brief eye contact with her, his eyes sad. She knew, too, her eyes shining wet with the grim acceptance. She knew what had to be done. "I forgive you. I love you." It was this: die, or the world dies with you. There was no **_**duex ex machina **_**here, like in **_**True Psychic Tales**_**, no miracle waiting to take them away. No God of his was going to stoop down, even to save the lives of a dangerously smart man, a tired little boy, and the beautiful, Brazilian woman that he loved. **

**"D-do the right thing," Raz mumbled, catching the auras of the other people. He knew, too (sharp as a tack, that one), but the thought frightened him. He was only a child, after all, with the usual childish thought of immortality plaguing him right up until death stared him in the face. He was far too young to understand the concept of a sacrifice, but he did. While he couldn't openly surrender himself to the afterlife (whatever it held), he could still mumble a moral for Sasha to ingest. **

**It was then, with the wide, innocent eyes of Milla and Razputin staring at him, that Sasha met Damian's confident eye. He was grinning from ear to unsightly ear, certain that this was the breaking point for the infamous Sasha Nein… and he was right. However, breaking Sasha Nein wasn't going to get him the world, as he had expected. Instead, it got him a deathly look, the kind of glare that made bigger men than him sent to quaking. It was the glare of a man who had nothing left to lose, the most dangerous enemy of all. It was the glare of a man who was already dead.**

**"Kill them, you psycho fuck. Kill them now." **

…**And he did.**

_**The Morning After Condition**_

"Sasha! Hey, Sasha!" He heard them before he saw them, being that he had his eyes closed: Ford Cruller and Morceau Oleander, his best friends, calling his name. He woke up from his daze, his nightmare over for tonight. High up in the sky, the sun filtered down golden light against the gravestones, their shiny surfaces reflecting it right back like a game of pong. He was warmed in it, his dark sweater making bits of sweat prickle on his skin already.

Slowly, he got up and stretched, his back aching a little from his night on the ground. The grass had left ugly green tints on the fabric, but he hoped that would wash out. He no longer saw stains as unbearably tacky as they had been. Besides, the dark sweater and deep brown jeans hid the stains well.

Ford and Morry crested the hill, the former with his hands on his knees, gasping a little. His plaid shirt already had sweat stains under the arms—it was a hot day. Morry, however, stomped right up to him, his russet face twisted in not-really-that-bad anger.

"Graveyard shift _again_, Nein? Don't you know we worry about you?" He could tell, from the tone of voice Morry held, that he wasn't really mad. The short soldier was more concerned than anything, but hid it with anger as usual. It was only after the incident that he ever started really showing his concern at times, but that was only rarely. Seeing him sleeping in the graveyard wasn't one of the times to invoke actual concern, not after all the times he'd done it before.

Ford, meanwhile, was looking at the twin graves he had slept behind. He looked up at him, and the old man's eyes were sad. Slowly, without speaking, he walked to Ford's side, so that they were both looking at the front of the stones. Morry, not liking being ignored, walked over to Ford's free side. Silently, they read the grave markers, for not the first time, and certainly not the last time.

**Amelia K. Vodello**

**1972-2007**

"**Life's a party… so start dancing."**

Read the first one, its blocky, professional writing not suiting the 35-year-old party girl at all. The grave was decorated with carved images of flowers, but not the kind of psychedelic daisies and swirly lines she adored. Rather, these seemed almost photorealistic, with intricate leaves, lengthy stems, and graceful petals. Instead of daisies, she had roses. Instead of curls, she had thorns. He had gotten as close as he could, but couldn't find anyone in the business who had stencils of something so… sixties. It was realism or nothing. Well, hopefully Milla knew he had tried. He couldn't even get her nickname on it, though… damn…

He looked over at the next grave, struggling not to think of his crush. This one was shaped the same as the other (sort of a tall, house-like shape), due to them being purchased from the same company. The only things different between the two were the names and designs.

**Razputin D. Aquato**

**1996-2007**

"**If you have a dream, do it. Even the whole world's against you."**

The pictures were circus-themed (a tent and series of upwards-drifting balloons), picked out by Raz's father, rather than by him. It was stupefying how little Razputin's father had known about his son's personality, a fact that he looked at with distain. The man hadn't even known that Raz vehemently despised the circus, but then again, that would explain a bit of why the boy had run away. Raz hadn't wanted that quote on his grave (he had mentioned once, in a conversation, that he wanted it to read "and this is why you should never stick your face in a blender"), either, but the 'he' at the grave found it to be one of his more endearing little speeches. And speaking of speeches, Ford was saying something to him. He tuned in.

"We came as fast as we could," Ford muttered, looking only at the stone. The other man grunted unexcitedly.

"Not fast enough."

"I'm sorry about Razputin and Milla. But I'm just glad we were able to get one back before he was killed."

"Mm-hmm." The conversation died, and Ford cast his eyes towards the sky, taking in the blue color and fluffy clouds with distracted interest.

"It's almost June," Ford pointed out, this time looking towards the trees near the far edge of the graveyard. "Morry and I will have to go off to camp." He looked towards the other expectantly, but he remained silent, watching the two graves. Morry was already heading back up the hill, a little too peeved at the stoic man to say good-bye. Ford did it for him, turning his body towards the hill, but still keeping his eyes on his old friend.

"We just wanted to see if you were okay. And you look like you need some alone time, so, well… good-bye, Sasha." He didn't say anything, and Ford sighed and began walking up.

_Life's a party… so start dancing._

_If you have a dream, do it. Even the whole world's against you._

It was odd how both quotes rang with his life. Well, he was the one who picked them, so… maybe his subconscious knew something he didn't. Only one way to find out.

"Ford," he called, temporarily tearing his eyes away from the stones. The old man turned back to look at him, and they locked gazes, weathered blue meeting steely gray.

"…Yeah?" Ford asked, looking confused. He looked down at the graves again, thinking of how wrong they seemed with the wrong images and unasked quotes… Milla and Razputin wouldn't have wanted this. They would have known of the only thing to help them rest in peace, at least in his mind, and now he knew, too.

"…Can I come along? To Whispering Rock, I mean." Ford blinked, his moustache twitching a little (a sign of uncertainty).

"Are you sure? You remember what happened last time. The kids are still talking about it." He remembered, of course. He also remembered his lab, hidden under the GPC. He remembered the purplish-pink (hairdryer thing) Brain Tumbler hanging from the ceiling in the center like a mechanical spider. He remembered the mounds of paper and boxes strewn about, and the art deco, stained glass staircase. He remembered the way the pine trees would always turn in a certain way when the wind blew, and the way the sparrows sounded in the early morning, and how the sun always shone just right at about five in the morning to fill his entire lab with gold light… He missed that place.

"I think I'm to be okay, Ford," he said, and he meant it. Honest to God, he meant it.

Sasha Nein took one last look at the graves of his friends, then turned around on his heel and walked away. He never, even once, looked back.

**_..._**

_END._

_Next chapter: the epilogue. Including a crossover with a familiar LucasArts game. Yes, next one's a bit more optimistic._


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